Was It Murder Read Online

Revell, you don’t seem inclined to trust me very much.  Just tell me this, though—have you definitely formed the opinion that the first of the Marshall boys was murdered?  Because I can tell you absolutely that the second boy was.  That’s quite settled.”

“WHAT!  What do you mean?”

“Steady—don’t get excited—we don’t want people to hear us talking.  I’m prepared to be frank with you if you’ll be the same with me.  Can we call it a bargain?”

Revell slowly nodded.  “You were saying about the second Marshall—“

“Oh yes.  He was murdered all right.  We dug up his body last night and found a bullet in his brain.”

“GOOD GOD!”

The other made a sign that they should both be as quiet as possible.  “In fact,” he whispered, “I think we’d better finish this conversation in a more convenient spot.  Can I trust you to go down ahead of me, to walk out of the School gates, and meet me in five minutes’ time at the corner of the Patchmere lane?  And, of course, on no account to mention a word about this to anyone you happen to meet?  Go along then—I’ll follow discreetly and lock up—

I’ve got a key.”

Five minutes later the two met again in the bright sunshine of the country cross-roads.  Revell by that time had managed to conquer his amazement; he greeted the other with a slight smile.  “First of all, Mr. Guthrie, I really would like to know WHAT you are and how you come into all this,” he began.

“Soon, Mr. Revell—all in good time.  Are you busy just at present?”

“I was thinking of catching the eleven o’clock train back to town.”

“Were you?  Could you possibly make it a later one?”

“Oh yes.  What do you want me to do?”

“Well, you might lunch with me at Easthampton, to begin with.  My car’s at the pub along the lane here—we can be at Easthampton in half an hour.”

Easthampton, the busy market town fifteen miles away, had several pretty good hotels, and at one of them, the Greyhound, Guthrie appeared to be staying.  “There’s too much gossip in a little place like Oakington,” he said, as he left his car in the hotel-yard.  “Come on—there’s not a great crowd here, so we shall be able to talk.”

He chatted about unimportant matters till the waitress had left them alone after their meal; then, offering Revell a cigarette from his case, he went on, as if there had hardly been any interruption since the conversation in the Oakington sick-rooms:  “Yes, it was a bullet all right—found it in the first five minutes.  That old darling Murchiston’s too old for his job—don’t believe he’d have found a cannon-ball even.  Still, we mustn’t blame him, since he served our purpose pretty well.”

“The Coroner seemed just as big a fool.”

“Oh, the Coroner?  Mustn’t blame him, either, I’m afraid—he only did as he was told.  Privately he suspected something was wrong, but we suggested to him that a verdict of Accidental Death would be a good thing if it could be managed.  And it was.  Oh, he’s smart enough—make no mistake about it.”

“YOU suggested to him about the verdict?”

“WE, yes—Scotland Yard, I mean, though perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you.  Oh yes, we’re not so blind as people often suppose.  What I want to know now is how YOU came to have suspicions?”

“It’s rather a complicated story, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind, I’ll listen.  I’ve been pretty frank with you—now it’s your turn.  Go ahead.”

Revell, after a doubtful pause, began at the beginning and told the whole history of his connexion with the Marshall affair.  Guthrie did not question him during the narration, but when he had finished, the good-humoured, rather nondescript face took on a sudden look of alertness.  “So you’re what might be termed an amateur detective, eh, Mr. Revell?”

“I don’t claim the title, I assure you.  I came in, at the beginning, because of Roseveare’s invitation, and when the second affair happened I think it was rather natural that I should take an interest in it.”

“Oh, quite.  And for an amateur you really haven’t done so very badly.  The point is that we professionals have all the cards in our hands.  Inevitable, isn’t it?  You’ve no credentials—no police force to back you up.  The only thing an amateur can do—and that, very often, quite easily—is to scare the criminal and give him a good chance of getting away.”

“I don’t think I’ve done that.”

“Did I say so?  Personally I think the Oakington murderer is very far from being scared.  The inquest verdict must, as we intended, have reassured him considerably.”

“There have been all sorts of rumours about, though.”

“Oh, I daresay.  Most likely some of my plain-clothes fellows have been seen—I put them on to keep an eye on things at night.”

“Do you mean that you’ve been searching the place already?”

“Hardly that—though by pure luck my men DID find something—but this weather’s the very devil—gives everybody such a reasonable excuse for taking a stroll in the middle of the night. . . .  However, most of that’s by the bye.  What I was just going to tell you was that a few days ago a man named Graham arrived in town.  He also had noticed the rather remarkable accidents that had happened to two boys at a public school.  He was the boys’ guardian, in fact, so he had every right to be interested.  But instead of trying to solve the mystery, if any, on his own, he very wisely— yes, VERY wisely, if I may say so, Mr. Revell—came to us at the Yard for a little talk about it.”

Revell accepted the implied rebuke with a faint smile.

“Not that he had definite evidence, of course,” continued the other.  “One very often hasn’t, at the beginning of a case.  But he told us enough for the Yard to send me to Oakington—just for a little unofficial look around.  I hope I didn’t make myself too conspicuous, though I did have a chat with the local Coroner and police.  Like you, Mr. Revell, I very soon came to the tentative conclusion that the second boy, and possibly the first as well, had been murdered.  Then, quite by chance, one of the constables on patrol duty found something that definitely gave us a clue.  On the strength of it we were able to approach the Home Office with a request for the exhumation of the body.  That’s how it all happened. . . .  Now don’t ask me what it was that my men found, for a detective has to keep a few secrets to himself.  Tell me now, if it doesn’t happen to be one of YOUR secrets, whom do you suspect?”

“The obvious person seems to be Ellington—the housemaster of School House.”

“Yes, yes, I daresay.  And what are the reasons that make you think he is so very obvious?”

“Well, to begin with . . . but, as a matter of fact, I tabled them all in my notebook—perhaps you’d care to have a look?”

“Yes, I certainly should.”

Revell produced his notebook, opened it at the proper page, and handed it across to the other.  Guthrie studied it intently for a moment or two.  “I suppose you took a First in Greats at Oxford, eh?” he remarked, as he handed it back.

“Well yes, I did, as it happens, but—“

“So did I, too—but I’ve had twenty years of hard experience since, which make up for it.  You’ve made some clever and quite valuable points, but you should beware of theorising too much.  However, there’s one little minor mystery that we ought to be able to clear up within the next few hours.  And that is the very queer attitude of the celebrated Dr. Roseveare.  Will you undertake that little job for me?”

“I’ll try, of course.  But how do you suggest I should set about it?”

“In the directest manner possible.  Tell him that the boy’s body has been exhumed and that Scotland Yard is investigating the murder— watch the fellow’s face and don’t give him time to make up a yarn.  Ask him for a full explanation of all that puzzles you.  I’m giving you the job because it occurs to me that he might be franker with you than he would be with me—that’s the sort of sly fellow I am.  Anyhow, we shall see if it works.”  And he added:  “By the way, I wouldn’t chatter too much about all this to Lambourne.  You may perhaps have been a shade too free with that young man.”

Guthrie motored Revell back to Oakington towards tea-time, and arranged to meet him again later on in the evening.  When or how Revell was to get back to town afterwards was not even discussed.

He felt rather bewildered when he was left alone.  So much seemed to have happened during those few hours since the morning.  He had been caught up, as it were, in the swift maelstrom of great events, and though it was just the sort of thing he had always longed to have happen to him, he was not altogether sure that it was as pleasant as he had expected.  Now that he knew beyond all doubt that the affair in the swimming-bath HAD been murder, he felt, more than he had ever felt before, a certain overlying horror in the atmosphere of Oakington.  Strolling round the Ring on that lovely midsummer afternoon, with the song of birds and the plick-plock of cricket in his ears, he felt with awe that somewhere thereabouts, perhaps in one of the rooms whose windows glittered in the sunlight, or perhaps even on the pavilion-roof watching the game, was someone who had carefully and callously schemed the deaths of one and perhaps of two persons.  Over the entire School there seemed to hang the dark and spectral shadow of such a deed, and all the more terribly because it was still invisible to so many.

He thought of Guthrie with grudging admiration mingled with astonishment that any Oxford man could contrive to look as he did at the age of forty or so.  There was a queer forcefulness about the fellow—a personality, undoubtedly, that hid behind the deliberately average manner.  Guthrie, too, had been very confidential, and Revell felt more than a little proud to think that his own deductions, even without much background of evidence, had proved so largely correct.  Theory, even with the recent stamp of Oxford upon it, had its place if it could so intelligently anticipate the findings of practical research.

Towards six o’clock he walked up the drive leading to the Head’s house.  He was perhaps just the least bit nervous, but apart from that it was a relief, after so much speculating and theorising, to know that at last he was about to tackle something straightforwardly.

Roseveare, busy with correspondence in his study, was naturally astonished to see him again.  “Missed your train, eh?  There’s another good one at seven, I think—you can verify it from my time-table here. . . .”

Revell flushed under the scarcely veiled hint.  “I came back, sir,” he began, slowly, “because I wanted to have a few words with you— confidentially.”

“Confidentially?  Dear me, that sounds very interesting.  Please sit down—these letters, I hope, will not keep me very long.”

Revell would have quickly resented such treatment in more normal circumstances; as it was, he merely interposed:  “I think, sir, you would rather I gave you my message without delay.  I really came to tell you that yesterday the body of Wilbraham Marshall was exhumed, and it was found that he had been shot.”

The effect upon Roseveare was electric; he looked up with suddenly piercing eyes that were like the gleaming tips of a pair of foils.  But after the first bewildered second there came to him, as from immense reserves of hidden strength, a sort of defensive blandness which might have concealed anything or everything behind its ramparts.  Revell, who had expected a good deal from the suddenness of his announcement, was not altogether satisfied with its results.

“But, my dear boy, you’re not serious, are you?  All sorts of

rumours, I know, are still in circulation—“

“This isn’t a rumour,” Revell cut in.  “I heard it from a Scotland Yardman who has been in Oakington to-day and who attended the exhumation yesterday.”

“Scotland Yard?  And in Oakington?  But surely—surely—if that were so—he would come to me with his information?”

“Apparently not.”

“And you say it was discovered that the boy had been shot?”

“Yes.  They found the bullet in his head.”

“That is dreadful—very dreadful.”  A look of horror entered his eyes for a moment, before giving way to renewed astonishment.  “But really, you must tell me more about this.  It was good of you to miss your train and bring me the terrible news.  Yes, very good of you—and—I thank you sincerely.”  There was an ample graciousness in his voice.  “Now tell me—how did you come into possession of this appalling information?  Where did you meet your informant?  Why did he tell you?”

Revell, who had come to cross-examine rather than to be cross-examined, was somewhat taken aback by this string of inquiries.  Nevertheless, he answered:  “I met him—er—quite accidentally.  As for why he told me, I don’t know, unless he thought I might be able to help him.  Anyhow, it’s established now that the boy was murdered and that the accident was a mere fake.  And naturally, sir, I’m a little puzzled over one or two small matters that concern you and me in this affair.”

“Such as?”

“Well, in the first place, why did you REALLY send for me here to begin with?  I daresay you can quite understand that this recent affair rather opens up the earlier one.  You obviously had suspicions of some kind when you sent for me originally, and the reason you gave was—if you don’t mind my being perfectly frank about it—paltry.  I put it down to the state of your nerves at the time—but I really can’t understand how and why your nerves have been so totally unaffected by this second affair.  This was far more suspicious, on the face of it; yet you didn’t seem to have any suspicions; you didn’t send for me; and when I did come, you gave me the impression that nothing was or could be wrong and that I was altogether wasting my time.  Rather a puzzling change of front, sir, it seems to me.”

“Yes, I’m sure it must have been puzzling.”

“I wish you could explain it to me, anyhow,” Revell went on.  “In a serious affair like this, every little mystery cleared up is so much to the good.  Besides, I’m sure you must be anxious that the person who murdered one and perhaps two of your boys shall be discovered as soon as possible.”

The simplicity of the appeal seemed to bring Roseveare nearer to emotion than hitherto; after a pause, and in a rather different voice, he replied:  “I don’t quite see how my explanation can help towards the discovery of the criminal, but still, I recognise your right, in the circumstances, to be told rather more than you know already.  I will give you the explanation, therefore, though I doubt if it will do any good.  It concerns other persons besides myself, unfortunately, so you must allow me to mention no names.  I wish I could prevent you from guessing, but I may hope, at least, that you will try to respect as many privacies as you can.”

It was an easy promise to make, and Revell made it.

“You will believe me, I am sure,” Roseveare went on, “when I tell you that I had not the slightest suspicion at first that the dormitory accident was anything but what it appeared to be.  There was nothing to suspect; there was nobody to be suspected; it seemed just one of those tragic, almost pointless, mishaps that do happen from time to time.  The inquest returned what appeared to me and to everyone else the only possible verdict.  Not for two months—till the end of November, in fact—did I harbour the very least misgiving.  Then, one afternoon, the wife of one of my staff visited me alone in this room, and unfolded an exceedingly remarkable story.  She gave me to understand that her husband had done several things that seemed to connect rather curiously with the death of the boy.”

“Good heavens!  You mean that she suspected her husband of having murdered him?”

“Nothing nearly so definite as that, I am afraid.  She was far too incoherent and hysterical to frame her suspicions into anything so tangible.  I did not, as a matter of fact, believe her or take much notice of what she said, which is perhaps a pity.  I remember she mentioned the sick-rooms over the dormitory and said that her husband had been there several times during the vacation, and without apparent reason.  She also said that on the night of the accident he had not come to bed until very late.  Anyhow, as I said, I regarded her case as rather pathological—she seemed to me to be in a highly hysterical condition, and I packed her off as quickly as I could and tried to think no more of the matter.”

“Yet you did, I suppose?”

“I did.  I confess it.  It’s curious how a suspicion, dismissed at first as utterly preposterous, improves its status after a time.  Not, of course, that I really came to believe her.  But I did, perhaps, come to feel that the matter was just worth probing a little.  After all, there are queer things in this world, and I knew that as well as anyone.  The trouble was, of course, that I was not in a position to do any of the probing myself.  To have attempted even the most casual investigation would have attracted notice—you would be surprised how hard it is for a headmaster to find out what is going on in his own school.  So, to come to the point, I recollected a chance conversation I had some years ago with the Master of your college at Oxford, and I sent for you.

“Well now, consider my position when you came.  I did not feel justified in telling you the truth—to have done so, I judged, would have prejudiced the impartiality of your investigation, apart from being an atrocious slander upon a colleague for whom I had, and still have, every respect.  On the other hand, it was clearly necessary that I should give you some reason for having sent for you.  I therefore concocted the little note which I told you had been left between the pages of the boy’s algebra-book.”  He half-smiled.  “It sounds, I daresay, a childish thing to have done, but it was really the only thing I could think of.  And I was, I confess, rather amused when you discovered a plausible and an altogether satisfactory reason why the boy should have left the note which, in fact, he did not write at all.  The moral, perhaps, is that it is easy for an ingenious person to find reasons for anything.”

He continued, after a pause:  “That week-end you were here, however, something happened that removed all my misgivings completely.  The lady in question visited me again, but in very different circumstances.  She came, in fact, to apologise for her previous visit, and to tell me that all her suspicions were really quite groundless and merely the result of nerves.  This tallied, of course, with my own theory of the incident, and I was very glad to take her word about it.”

“Although really you had no more reason to suppose she was speaking the truth then than before?”

“Well, perhaps not, according to the strictest logic.  But you must remember that, as something of a doctor myself, I could see the immense improvement in her condition—she was calm and rational upon this second visit and gave every evidence of being bitterly ashamed of her previous one.  Anyhow, I DID believe her.  And so, by the time you made your report to me, the matter was already settled in my mind and I was thinking that I had sent for you on somewhat of a fool’s errand.  It was not, of course, your fault, but I was naturally anxious for you not to waste any more of your time.”

“And what about this second accident?  Didn’t it awaken any of the old suspicions?”

“Why should it have done?  It was, I admit, a most remarkable coincidence, but in the face of Murchiston’s evidence, to say nothing of the evidence of my own eyes, how could I have thought of anything but accident?  Your attitude, of course, was bound to be different, for you could not know the whole truth about the first affair.  I wasn’t in the least surprised that you came along, but you can hardly have expected me to invite you.”

“You really thought it possible that the boy did dive into the empty bath?”

“Certainly.  It was unlikely, but perfectly possible.  It seemed far more possible to me than any theory of murder.  In fact, but for the bullet which you say has been discovered, I doubt if murder could or would have been thought of.  What puzzles me is why the Home Office so readily permitted the exhumation.  They must have been given reasons beyond mere local tittle-tattle.”

“The detective told me his men had found something—some piece of evidence—he didn’t tell me what.”

“Found something?  Where?”

“Here.  On the premises, somewhere or other.”

“Do you mean to tell me that policemen have been searching the School?”

“Not searching, I think, so much as watching.”

“Watching or searching, it is all equally scandalous.”  His voice lost, for the first time, its smooth precision.  “Common courtesy, I should have thought, would have made even a detective ask for the permission which he might know I should have to give.  You may tell your detective friend, Revell, if you see him again, that I should like very much to know by whose authority he sets his spies to trespass on private property!  A disgraceful infringement of all public and personal rights!”

And so the interview closed on that note of anger.  It was something to have found out that trespass, if not murder, could raise the ire of the Headmaster of Oakington.

CHAPTER VI

LAMBOURNE’S STORY

Revell was determined not to sacrifice his entire independence in the investigation.  Greatly as he respected Guthrie, he had no desire to be merely his assistant, or to give up his own rather interesting position in an affair that was certainly becoming more interesting at every moment.  When he met the detective that evening in one of the country lanes near the School, he gave him a fairly full account of his interview with Roseveare.  Guthrie nodded complimentarily when he had finished.

“So you got it out of him, then?  The question is, of course—is it the truth?”

Revell had wondered the same thing himself, but he was a little astonished by Guthrie’s calm suspicion.  “Do you mean that you suspect him?” he queried.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as that.  It’s rather that I always suspect a queer yarn.  And this, you’ll admit, is pretty queer.  Who’s this woman he was talking about—I suppose you DID make a guess?”

Revell paused uncomfortably.  “I don’t know whether I ought—“

“Of course you ought,” interrupted Guthrie with a laugh.  “It’s all informal—between ourselves, you know.  Anyhow, if you prefer it, I’ll have a shot myself and say she’s Ellington’s wife.  Impudent-looking piece, with black hair and a turned-up nose—that’s the lady, isn’t it?”

The description astonished Revell so much that he did not reply; but Guthrie evidently took his silence for an affirmative.

“Why should she go to the Head with such a yarn, I wonder?  If she DID go, that is.  We must remember that either or both of them may be complete liars.  By the way, Roseveare wasn’t Head in your time here, was he?”

“No.  He came a few years after the end of the War.  I daresay you know all about his War record and so on?”

“Oh yes, I gathered he was rather a mandarin in those days.  I even went a bit farther back and looked up his record before the War.  That was quite exciting, too.”  Guthrie stopped to light his pipe in the gathering dusk.  “Thought so—these hedges are full of young lovers, and young lovers, contrary to the popular idea, are not so intent on their own affairs that they won’t listen to two strangers chattering in high-pitched voices about a local big pot.  We must talk more quietly. . . .  Now let me tell you a few things about our friend the Headmaster of Oakington.  To begin with, he hasn’t any ordinary schoolmaster’s degree—the ‘doctor’ before his name is a medical title.”

“I knew that.”

“Oh, you did?  Well, it’s unusual, rather, isn’t it?  Then again, he had no scholastic experience before he came to Oakington.  He’s been many things in his time—doctor, politician, business man, even a sort of gentleman farmer—but till a few years ago he never ran a school.”  Guthrie paused and puffed reflectively.  “Of course, you know why Oakington took him?  The place was in a bit of a bad way under the previous fellow—Jury, wasn’t his name?--and they—the School governors—imagined Roseveare would pull the show out of the mire.  Which, to a large extent, I believe he has done.”

“He has a wonderful personality, I think.”

“Oh yes—no doubt about that.  Don’t think I’m attacking the fellow at all.  I’m merely pointing out that we’re not dealing with the average Eton and Oxford headmaster who composes Greek epigrams and wears a parson’s collar.  Roseveare’s a man of wider experience altogether.  Twice at least he made a fortune and lost it—once in America and again in New Zealand.  He had, and still has, an extraordinarily persuasive way with him.  In America he made a great hit as a company-promoter.”

“Really?  That reminds me that I’ve very often seen him poring over stock-market reports in the papers.”

Guthrie smiled.  “That, by itself, isn’t very remarkable, I’m afraid.  There’s hardly a headmaster in England who hasn’t dabbled in shares—generally to his loss. . . .  Roseveare, however, really was a sort of financier at one time in his career.  Oh, quite honest, yes—or at least as honest as a financier can be.  He was unlucky, though, in the end—lost all his money and crossed to New Zealand.  There he set up as a local doctor in a small town where the schoolmaster’s name was Ellington.”

“Good Lord—you mean the Ellington who’s here at Oakington now?”

“Yes.  What’s more, when Roseveare became successful and took a practice in a larger town, Ellington soon afterwards followed him there as a schoolmaster.  They were obviously very close friends.  The only place Ellington didn’t follow Roseveare to was the War.  He stayed in New Zealand, where there wasn’t conscription, and became rather unpopular.  Later, when Roseveare was appointed to Oakington, Ellington came hopping over from the other side of the world to become a housemaster here.  Curious, don’t you think?”

“Very curious.  I say, don’t you think it looks rather like

blackmail?  Suppose Ellington knew something a little bit

discreditable about Roseveare’s past—after all, a man with all

those different careers may well have done something or other—“

“He may, of course, but there’s absolutely not a shadow of evidence.”

“Well, just for the moment assuming that he had done something a

little bit over the line in one way or another—“

“That’s all very well, but I fail to see what possible connexion it can have with the murder of the boy Marshall.  After all, that’s what we’re investigating.”

Suddenly Revell was attacked, conquered, and completely overwhelmed by an idea.  “Yes, I know, and see how it fits in.  Do you remember me telling you that the boy came back unexpectedly that night and that very few people knew he was in the dormitory?  Roseveare didn’t—at least, I don’t think he did.  Well, supposing Roseveare, having been blackmailed by Ellington till he was desperate, had decided to get rid of his oppressor once and for all!  He knew that Ellington had to sleep in Marshall’s bed in the dormitory until the boy came back.  He didn’t expect the boy back until Monday.  Isn’t it just possible, then, that the death of the first Marshall was that somewhat rare combination—a murder AND an accident?”

Guthrie broke into a gust of laughter.  “Now that’s really clever of you, Revell, and if there were only the least little bit of evidence in support of it, I’d say it was worth looking into.  Even so, I don’t know how you’d fit in the second affair.  What possible motive could the respected Headmaster have had for murdering the second boy?”

“Exactly.”  Revell’s voice was sharp with excitement.  “And have I ever suggested that he murdered them both?  Mayn’t there just as easily have been two murderers as two murders?”

“Oh, get away with you—you’re too clever for a poor old honest plodder like me.  Besides, I think we’ve done enough theorising for the time being.  What we want is facts, and the sooner we set about getting them the better.  Now let’s turn back for a final drink before bed-time.”

Nor would he say another word about the case except, just before they separated, to mention that it might be just as well, in the circumstances, if Revell were to stay on for a time as the guest of Dr. Roseveare.

Revell accordingly spent another night in the Head’s comfortable house.  Roseveare had already gone to bed when he came in, but it was clear that he was expected to stay, since his bag had been unpacked again and whisky and sandwiches left hospitably on the dining-room sideboard.

In the morning, when he went down to breakfast, the butler told him that Dr. Roseveare presented his apologies but was breakfasting that morning in the Masters’ Common Room.

The reason for that became apparent an hour later, when Revell met Lambourne in the corridor of School House.  “Hullo, Revell!” cried the latter, with a jaunty air.  “Still here?  I guess you’ll stay on now, won’t you?  Such a sensation, isn’t it?  Come along into my room, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

As soon as the door had closed upon them, Lambourne continued breathlessly:  “We’ve just been accorded the rarest of honours.  The Head breakfasted with us in the Common Room.  You’ve no idea, Revell, not being a poor devil of an usher, what that means.  Of course we knew immediately that something had happened or was going to happen—the last time we had him to share our Quaker Oats was when five prefects made a dash to the Wembley Exhibition with five barmaids.  But that was years and years ago.  This time the news was even more serious.  Unfortunately the surprise part of it was rather ruined by the fact that we’d all just been reading the thrilling news in the Daily Mail.  Journalistic enterprise in these days, my boy, is a horse that wants some beating.”

“I wish you’d tell me what on earth you’re talking about,” said Revell, a trifle peevishly.  He had slept badly and was in none too good a humour.

“Is it possible that you haven’t yet seen the morning papers?”

“I haven’t, no.”

“Then you aren’t aware that Wilbraham Marshall’s body has been exhumed and that the authorities suspect what the Sunday Press will delight to call ‘foul play’?”

Revell’s surprise needed no assuming, for he had had no idea that the matter would already have come to the notice of the newspapers.  Lambourne continued, well satisfied with the sensation he was creating:  “That’s a pretty sort of scandal to happen to a school whose clientele is just struggling on to the border-line that separates Golder’s Green from Kensington!  Naturally our learned and respected chief was fairly rattled about it.  Told us, in so many words, that detectives were about and that any one of us, at any time, might be suspected of murder.  Advised us all to keep calm and ‘endeavour to reconcile our duty to the School with our duty to society’.  I suppose he means we’re not to be too helpful when the detectives come to cross-examine us.”

“I expect you were all pretty staggered, eh?”

“STAGGERED?  Wouldn’t you have been?”

“Did anybody—anybody in particular—appear concerned?”

“Ellington went rather pale, if that’s what you’re angling after.  As a matter of fact, the person most affected was quite probably myself—I fainted.  Never could stand the little touch of drama.”

“Well, well,” said Revell, with a sigh, “I suppose we must resign ourselves to events.”

“The Head isn’t exactly in a mood of resignation, I can tell you.  He’s put servants at all the gates to act as pickets and stop newspaper men from coming in.  No one is to enter the grounds without authority—no one is to answer any questions put by strangers—all town-leave is stopped for the whole school, prefects included, until further notice.  We’re a beleaguered garrison, rallying under our gallant Captain Roseveare against the expected onslaughts of the Fleet Street Fusiliers.”  The bell began to ring for morning school.  “That means I must hurry away to inject a little English literature into the fourth form.  They won’t do any work, of course—and do you blame them?”

Revell laughed and left him.  Since Guthrie’s cautionary remark, he had taken care not to confide too much in Lambourne; indeed, he was now definitely on his guard against him.

The Head was just leaving his study when Revell entered it a little while later.  He greeted Revell with his customary urbanity; and never, in some sense, had Revell felt his charm more hypnotically.  In such a presence the theory that postulated him as a murderer melted into absurdity.

“Sorry to have left you alone for breakfast,” Roseveare began, “but I thought it best to make an announcement to the staff at the earliest possible moment.  Even so, I find I have been forestalled by the newspapers.  I do wish your detective acquaintance would hurry up with his inquiries—I am afraid the work of the School will be sadly affected until the whole thing is cleared up.  Have you any idea what he intends to do and when?”

Revell confessed that he knew nothing.  “I should think, though, that he’ll get to work pretty quickly—he seems that sort of man.”

“I’m glad to hear it.  In spite of his discourtesy, I shall be very willing to give him all the help I can.  Do you yet know, by the way, what it was that his men found here while they were searching— or, as you put it, watching—the place?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I only wondered if it might have been a revolver.  Because Mr.  Ellington told me this morning that he had missed his from the place where he usually keeps it.”

Revell fought back his excitement.  “Really?  I didn’t know he had a revolver, even.”

“Neither did I till he told me.  It’s a relic, apparently, of more strenuous days in the colonies before he came to Oakington.  Anyhow, he discovered last night that it was missing.  Naturally, it occurred to me that perhaps it was that which the police had discovered.”

“It may have been.  In any case, the missing revolver seems an important clue.”

“Very, I should think.  Mr. Ellington was most distressed about it, as you can imagine.”

“I suppose he felt that it—er—in a way—threw a certain amount of suspicion on himself?”

Roseveare appeared utterly shocked and astonished.  “Good God, no—

I don’t suppose such a preposterous notion ever entered his head— or anyone else’s, either!  What distressed him was the thought that by his own slackness in leaving his drawer unlocked the tragedy may have been enabled to take place.”

“You mean that the murderer may have taken Ellington’s revolver?”

“Murderer?  Why are you and your detective-friend so persistent in assuming murder?  All that is known is that the boy was shot.  Far be it from me to teach Scotland Yard, its job, but I really do feel convinced, in my own mind, that suicide is a far likelier supposition.  It is horrible enough, but it is by no means impossible.  Ellington, I may say, tells me that ever since the death of the boy’s brother last year, Wilbraham suffered from moods of extreme depression.  He confided in Ellington a good deal, it appears, and had free access to his rooms at all times—which would have given him ample opportunity to take the revolver.”

“But why on earth should he shoot himself in the swimming-bath, of all places?”

“How can I tell you?  It might occur to him as a place where he would be likely to cause least disturbance.”

“And why should he climb to the top diving-platform?”

“Again, how can I tell you?  But, in any case, are you sure that he did?”

Revell looked his astonishment, and Roseveare, taking his chance, resumed:  “My dear boy, don’t be so bewildered.  In a case like this it is really our duty to consider all possibilities, however remote.  I may as well tell you that I have given a good deal of careful consideration to the matter, and I have already evolved a theory—tentatively, of course—which seems to me at least as reasonable as any other.  I believe, briefly, that the boy DID commit suicide.”

“From the top diving-platform?”

“Not necessarily.  The bath is ten feet deep and the extent of his injuries seemed to me quite consistent with a fall from the edge.  And I speak, remember, with some medical knowledge and experience.”

“And the wrist-watch?”

“Ah, now we come to a different point.  Clearly the wrist-watch was placed on the top platform by somebody, and if not by the boy himself, then by whom?  And, even more important, why?  The only reason I can think of is that someone entered the bath after poor Wilbraham had shot himself, discovered the tragedy, and tried to make a suicide look like an accident.”

“Why?”

“The obvious reason would be consideration for the boy’s family— for the School’s reputation—for, indeed, everybody concerned.  Accident is bad enough, but suicide, you will agree, is much worse.”

“And murder worst of all?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, but I really must decline to consider such a possibility until every other avenue has been thoroughly explored.”

“Well, according to your theory, the thoughtful visitor, whoever he was, placed the boy’s wrist-watch on the top platform, removed his dressing-gown and slippers, if he had them on, and also took away the revolver.”

“Those are undoubtedly matters that would naturally occur to anyone who wished to produce the impression of an accident.”

“But he would hardly leave the revolver lying about for the police to discover afterwards?”

“Pardon me, but how do we know that the police have discovered it?

I understood just now that you yourself were not certain about it.  All that seems definitely established is that Ellington’s revolver is missing, and since Ellington reported the loss himself, it would seem obvious that he, at any rate, was NOT the person who visited the scene of the tragedy that night.”

“Then whom do you suspect?”

“My dear boy, that is hardly my province.  I am merely putting forward a theory which, for all its excessive complication and intricacy, seems to me infinitely less improbable than to suppose that one of my colleagues, whom I have known and respected for many years, should suddenly and for no conceivable reason commit the cold-blooded murder of his own cousin.  As a matter of fact, I do happen to know, on very good authority, that someone did visit the swimming-bath a short time after it may be supposed that the tragedy took place.  Now, now, don’t cross-examine me—I am not, at the moment, prepared to say more than that.”

With which altogether cryptic remark he gathered up his papers and gown and left Revell to think things over.

He thought things over, and two hours later, having received a message from a uniformed policeman (there was not much pretence of secrecy about things now), met Guthrie outside the School entrance.  He had his car with him, and the two drove rapidly to Easthampton.  “I’ve got to fetch my things across,” he explained.  “I’ve taken lodgings for the present at the house of the local police-sergeant— it’s on the spot, and Oakington gossip doesn’t matter so much now.  You don’t mind the ride to Easthampton and back, I suppose?”

Revell assured him that he would positively enjoy it, and further went on to describe his recent interview with Dr.